was the board? Where were the chess pieces?
Melancholy washed over him and it was an emotion he had never thought to feel here. Bronte was right to think he had arrived with the sole intention of developing the property and selling it on to make a quick profit—until she had planted that seed of doubt in his head, reminding him of the old man who had done so much for both of them. Credit for his artistic flair and business savvy, Heath could claim, but the fuel that had fired his hunger to do better had been all Uncle Harry.
Raking his hair as he looked around, he thought the word dilapidation didn’t even begin to cover this. Bottom line? He didn’t have time for Hebers Ghyll. His life, his work—everything—was in London. His impressive-sounding inheritance was little more than a ruin—a hall, with a tumble-down castle in the grounds, whose foundations had been laid in Norman times, and whose structure had been added to over the years with a mixed degree of success.
Make that heavy on the failure, Heath thought as he leaned his shoulder against a wall and heard it grumble. He had to wonder what Uncle Harry had been thinking on the day the old man had written his will. It was common knowledge Heath hated the countryside. Even as a youth he’d scorned the idea that owning a castle was grand; it was just a larger acreage of slum to him—still was. There was nothing here but rotten wood and cracks and holes, and leaking radiators.
But at least he was no stranger to this sort of mess.
His talent was in inventing computer games and running a company soon to go global, but his hobby was working with his hands. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d called a team together to work on the renovation of an ancient building.
Yes, but this was a huge project. He gave himself a reality check as he continued his inspection. Rubbing a pane of glass with his sleeve, he peered through an upstairs window … and thought about the dormitory Uncle Harry had set up in the barn for Heath and the other boys from the detention centre. They’d had fun—not that Heath would have admitted it at the time. They’d told ghost stories late into the night, trying to spook each other—and during the day they’d ridden bareback on the ponies, or risked their lives wrestling bullocks. The space and silence had got to him, but the village hadn’t been without its attractions. A challenge from the leader of the country lads with their burnished skin and glossy hair had led to a fight and Heath had established quite a reputation for himself. When he returned to the city he took things one disastrous step further, fighting for cash in dank, dark cellars—until the authorities caught up with him. After a chase the police had arrested him here, of all places—at Hebers Ghyll. He’d returned like a homing pigeon, he realised now. He’d gone back to the detention centre for a longer stretch.
It was only in court that he discovered Uncle Harry had shopped him. To save him, the old man said. The memory of how he’d hated Uncle Harry for that betrayal came flooding back—as did the follow-up, which made him smile. The old man had sent him a computer—'courtesy of his conscience', the greeting card had said. Heath had left it unpacked in his cell until one day curiosity got the better of him—and the rest was history.
His stint inside had left him wiser. He could make money, but not with his fists. Uncle Harry’s computer was the answer. On his release he set up an office in his bedroom where no one could see him or judge him, and no one knew how young he was, or how poor. All he had to do was click a mouse and the world came to him. And the world liked his games.
Heath moved on as the wall he’d been leaning against shuddered a complaint. He was stronger than he knew—which was more than could be said for the fabric of this place. One good shove and the whole lot would come tumbling down. It would be easier to flatten it and start again—
Since when had he embraced easy?
His fingers were already caressing the speed dial on his phone to call his architect when thoughts of plump pink lips and lush pert breasts intruded. Another pause, another memory—the last time he’d seen Bronte at Hebers Ghyll she’d been trying to save him from the police. She’d overheard Uncle Harry on the phone, and had run down the drive to warn him they were coming. When that had failed, she’d kissed him goodbye. He shook his head as he tried to blank the kiss. He’d better check she’d reached home safely.
He found Bronte still at the side of the road where she was having a bit of a disaster. The strap on her rucksack had given way and she was kneeling on the rolled-up groundsheet, lashing it into submission with a yard of rope and a clutch of nifty knots. Drawing the car to a halt, he leapt out. ‘Wouldn’t a regular buckle make things easier for you?’
‘The buckles broke in Kathmandu.’
He curbed a grin. ‘Of course they did.’
‘No, really, they did,’ she insisted, lifting her head. Then, remembering they weren’t quite friends, she lowered it again, by which time her cheeks were glowing red.
‘Want some help?’ he offered.
‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘Play me a different tune, Bronte.’ Having nudged her out of the way, he attached the rolled groundsheet to the top of her knapsack and started carrying it towards the car.
‘We already know it won’t fit in that ridiculous boot,’ she yelled after him.
‘Then I’ll carry it home for you.’
‘There’s no need.’ Racing up to him, she tried to pull it out of his hands.
‘Do you want that interview or not?’ he demanded, lifting it out of her reach.
‘Does this mean you’re keeping Hebers Ghyll?’ she demanded, staring up at him.
‘We’ll see,’ he said.
‘Give.’ She growled.
His lips curved as he looked down at her. ‘Is that pleasant tone of voice supposed to entice me to hand it over?’
‘Give, please,’ she said with a scowl.
‘Okay.’ He helped her to hoist the rucksack onto her back again, careful not to let his fingers do any more work than strictly necessary.
Hefting the pack into a more comfortable position, she wobbled a little as she grew accustomed to the weight and then tottered off in the direction of home. He stayed close to make sure she was safe.
‘I’m fine, Heath,’ she called back to him over her shoulder, breaking into an unsteady jog.
‘Watch out—the ground slopes away there—’
Too late. As Bronte stumbled on the treacherous bank he dived to save her. Catching his foot under a tree root, he took her with him, tumbling down the slope bound together as closely as two people could be.
‘Bloody idiot!’ she raged with shock as they thundered to a halt.
‘Thank you would do it for me,’ he observed mildly, noting the jagged rock he’d saved them from as well as the comfortable tangle of limbs.
‘Thank you,’ she huffed, snapping her hips away from his. ‘The townie who thinks he can run Hebers Ghyll can’t even keep his footing on a mossy bank,’ she observed with biting relish.
‘Is that dialect for welcome?’ he said mildly.
‘More
